Broken Wings
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: Damuron Atomais was destined to die on the battlefield alongside Casey, but Commandant Alexei has other ideas. This oneshot follows the birth of Schwann Oltorain and how he becomes Raven, as well as their grief for their fallen self and friend. I do not own Tales of Vesperia.


**Shock**

Days like this are supposed to be stormy and tumultuous, the weather reflecting the strife below with every flash and rumble. Frigid rain should be pouring down the sides of Mount Temza like tears, muddying the battlefield until every living thing wears the same sticky uniform—that of the earth which each side attempts to defend.

The skies instead are a clear and vivid orange, interrupted only by the patchy smoke of a few lingering spells of even fewer surviving mages, all of whom have fled. The sunlight is bright, if a little harsh, as it sets upon the mountain, and casts the rivers of slow-drying blood into shadow as the day comes to an end. Those who marched to the mountain that morning now lie motionless, the illusion of life granted only by capricious gales fluttering their torn and tattered clothes.

Only one is still stirring, clinging to the belief that he will find her again before he joins the multitude of casualties. Every heartbeat hurts as Damuron Atomais stumbles forward, a single barbed spine embedded in his heart—the only wound he suffered, so close to the end of the battle. His eyes, sight flickering in and out, scan the sea of dust-streaked faces desperately.

There she is, lying among her fallen platoon of archers. Damuron stops so abruptly that he falls to his knees as he looks down at her, too exhausted to cry. Whatever ended her life did so swiftly and mercifully, at least; her body is unscathed, but for a few cuts and scratches. "Casey," he breathes, voice hoarse and ragged, as though she might answer him, and falls forward with as much grace as he can muster, closing his eyes and attempting to slip his hand into hers one final time.

The wind, howling on the mountainside, fades in his ears; the metallic taste of his own blood vanishes gradually from his tongue. Casey's presence surrounds him comfortingly, whispering to him silently not to fear as he follows her into numb shadows. Without hearing her voice at all, Damuron _feels_ her commend him for his bravery: there are no words here in the familiar darkness.

Their souls intertwine, full of light and hope and beauty, and the radiant _awareness _of one another's love is better than all the nights he's shared with her before. Damuron finds himself desiring nothing more than to move on, away from the burden of life in all its suffering and sorrow, and follow Casey further into the peaceful abyss. He thinks he can feel his soul scattering pleasantly, becoming a part of everything and nothing alongside hers—she waited for him, after all, for those few moments between their deaths—

The world pulses suddenly red, and he feels alarm emanating from Casey's dispersing soul as his is concentrated once more and pulled back into a clumsy physical form. Pain shoots through his chest, where his heart once beat, and a different, heavier kind of blackness envelops him before he can scream in anguish.

**Denial**

Damuron never wants to open his eyes again. Maybe, if he just keeps them shut, they'll leave him alone and let him die. It's almost as though he was awakened just before the best part of a dream, and he lies there frustratedly, chasing it futilely behind his eyelids with a scowl on his half-conscious face.

Every sensation seems too extreme, now that he's accustomed to having no senses at all. Sick isn't a good enough word to describe the feeling in his gut—a half-emotional, half-physical illness. There's a bitter taste burning in his throat, perhaps related to the stinging scent of a sanitary room. What few sounds there are echo too loudly in his ears, and he's certain the light will be far too bright if he ever opens his eyes. At least complaining to himself about his situation distracts him a little from thinking about Casey.

A door opens and closes, startling Damuron: he winces, twitching at the noise, before remembering he's pretending to be dead and lying still again. Unfortunately, whoever has walked into the room is not fooled, and footsteps come to a halt near his bed. There is an ominous pause before a voice says, "Good; you're awake."

Damuron opens his eyes slowly and attempts to mumble a curse as glaring light hits his eyes (proving him right), but his tongue is sluggish and sticky and he can't get the word out. As he blinks the death out of his eyes reluctantly, he's grateful for his unintentional restraint: Commandant Alexei himself stands before his bed, studying him unnervingly as closely as though he would have to memorize his appearance.

"Damuron Atomais, sir," he drawls with an effort, in an attempt to be helpful, but the Commandant shakes his head agitatedly, and he falls silent immediately. When his superior says nothing, he turns his attention to the metal on his chest, and realizes with a jolt that it's a blastia—and, resting a hand on it, that it's what's keeping him alive. An impulse arises within him to destroy it and grant himself the peace he might have had, but he resists reluctantly.

"You are not Damuron Atomais anymore," says the Commandant firmly, and the artificial heart skips a beat as its owner waits namelessly for his superior to tell him who he is. "Your name is Schwann Oltorain, and your life… belongs to _me_." The Commandant smiles smugly, the first sign of emotion he's displayed.

Schwann is sure he's supposed to be intimidated or at the very least impressed, but the only thing he can find within himself is a dull, throbbing sense of loss. The most he can manage externally is a somewhat distant nod. He knows the Commandant means to threaten him with a second death if he doesn't obey orders, though what secret plans he would have to require such drastic measures, Schwann can't begin to guess.

Of course, the Commandant would never try such a tactic if he only knew what death is like. Schwann closes his eyes again, this time in thought: his mind knows that death is preferable to life, but his body is terrified, and trembles at the thought of his own execution. Knowing the Commandant, it would not be a simple spike in the heart this time, but a prolonged and excruciating demise. Yes; he will obey. He respects his superior, after all—perhaps more than he should.

The footsteps retreat; Schwann opens his eyes once more and croaks, "Wait." He doesn't have time nor breath for a more polite request than that, and he fully expects to be disregarded; he's seen soldiers fail to address the Commandant properly, and be either ignored or punished.

Much to his surprise, his superior halts, though he says nothing and does not turn around. Schwann clears his throat, wavering once more, before asking haltingly, "Why me?"

The Commandant lets out a terse laugh and keeps walking, shutting the door behind him. Schwann sighs with an aborted, humorless smile, and turns over in bed restlessly, running a finger resentfully around the blastia on his chest. He should have known better than to ask.

**Anger**

Schwann's body heals over the next month, and his skills with a sword remain unparalleled, according to the Commandant. In fact, he is generously promoted to Lieutenant despite the fact that he has only ever trained as a run-of-the-mill soldier—which means more training is headed his way. He's going to have to make sure his skills are really as good as the Commandant seems to think before he's fit to command anyone.

His training is intense enough that he doesn't have a lot of time to think, so he ends up lying awake at night, listening to his artificial pulse disgustedly. The reason why he was spared isn't just ordinary favoritism, he thinks. There's something happening behind the scenes, and Schwann wants to be there when it inevitably spills onto the stage—and be a part of it, if possible. That's the reason he's following the Commandant's orders, he reasons, closing his eyes. It's not because he's afraid of dying.

Bitterness simmers in the pit of his stomach each morning, and he doesn't know how to get rid of it. Hacking away at people with a sword, even in training, brings Schwann a fierce kind of satisfaction—imagining annihilating the beasts who extinguished Casey's fragile light—but it all disappears before more than a few hours. She never liked violence, after all, and he keeps remembering how she reprimanded him for spending so much energy trying to prove himself to her in battle, when he had already proven himself to her in other ways.

After that, Schwann lost his taste for blood, and gained a hearty appetite for her smile—and that was a taste he never lost, even since their deaths. Every time he thinks of the tangles in her hair, or the sparkle in her eyes, or the softness of her skin, or the laugh in her voice, he grits his teeth and misses a beat and wishes he could die again because _damn it_, she's all he ever had in life.

So what does Schwann have now? A title he doesn't deserve, a secret he doesn't know, and dreams he doesn't remember—but he always wakes up crying out of fury, his blastia pulsing rapidly red in the darkness and reminding him of everything he despises. He trains all the harder the next day; the desire to kill something, _anything_, slinks murderously around his soul.

Until he remembers her admonition once more… and falls apart all over again.

**Bargaining**

"So, tell me your story."

Don Whitehorse is more intimidating even than the Commandant. Schwann swallows nervously, unused to the air of authority the Don carries, and tugs at his outfit self-consciously. Loose and comfortable, these clothes are the first things he's bought in this life, and he intends to make good use of them to fulfill the Commandant's orders: _join Altosk at any cost, and give me information_.

He's even got an alias, just for extra believability—one he's spent the better part of the last week thinking up. Something that complements a swan, and is perhaps a little less reputable, reflecting the sort of work he's supposed to be doing. Who knew that over the last half year, he hasn't really been training to become a Lieutenant at all, but rather an imperial agent?

"Speak up," orders the Don, and Schwann starts and speaks up.

"My name's Raven, sir," he begins faintly, slipping into a cozy lie, but the Don cuts him off before he's spoken more than the four words. Schwann stops speaking almost before the Don interrupts, preferring to tread carefully around the much older, much wiser, much stronger man standing before him.

"Never mind that—_how did you do that_?" He crosses his arms in an almost threatening way, and Schwann knows that he'd better tell as much of the truth as possible. Frankly, he's surprised the Don hasn't broken him in half yet for wasting time. The man's at least twice as thick as Schwann, not to mention far more muscular.

"Oh—you mean the monsters?"

The Don nodded once, grizzled face looking amused, and Schwann gathered what little courage he could summon. Even in a good mood, the Don still appeared menacing. "Well, you see, I was just passing through on my way here, and I saw that herd of monsters and decided to try my luck against them."

The Don exploded into laughter, and Schwann smiled anxiously. Of course that's true, but he's neglecting to mention that he specifically timed it so the Don would see him and take notice. He also says nothing about the fact that his heart is fluttering weakly in his chest; the blastia seems to have activated on its own and destroyed the whole horde in a single arte, using his own life force to do so. It's a wonder he's still standing at all, let alone facing the Don in this condition.

"Kid, I like your style," chortles the leader of Altosk, but his eyes stay sharp and dark as they narrow. "I assume you want to join Heaven's Arrow? A lot of people come from far away to prove themselves in the interest of joining my guild, and I can see you're no exception."

"Yes," says Schwann; the single, completely truthful word seems to wrench itself out of him. "On one condition," he adds, with undue bravery, and the Don raises an amused eyebrow, as though asking what sort of position he's in to be making demands. "Please give me some freedom of movement," continues Schwann, swallowing dryly. "I have to be able to travel."

"Oh?" asks the Don, leaning back in his armchair and meeting his eyes curiously. "And why is that?"

Schwann sighs, glancing momentarily at the floor, head and heart racing as he tries to think of an excuse. "There's a lot I still have to learn," he murmurs, thinking suddenly of Casey and grimacing: the Don catches his expression. "Revenge," he explains hesitantly at the question on his face, determining that it could help his cause to reveal his thoughts. "My friend… she was kil—"

"I don't need to hear it," decides the Don, rising from the chair and startling Schwann into silence. "Here, our pasts are our business. If you need to travel to avenge a loved one, then by all means, go ahead, but don't feel obliged to include me."

He smiles—a distant but well-used smile that makes Schwann feel uncomfortably exposed. "I could use an honest soul like you. Welcome to Altosk, Raven."

**Guilt**

It's been a year. Raven clutches the half-empty bottle of spirits with an iron grip, trying to form a complete sentence in his head, but he can't keep anything straight anymore. Even his own identity and for whom he works is up in the aer. Schwann sends cryptic letters to the Commandant regarding his findings about the Union, but the Don is beginning to trust him a little too much for his tastes, and now Raven is beginning to gather information for him too.

This dishonesty makes him _sick_, and the only remotely effective medicine is alcohol. He's an unfortunately good liar, whenever he's sober enough to keep his stories straight—and even when he's drunk off his ass, he usually manages to talk as if he's perfectly lucid… and Raven can definitely hold his liquor. It takes far too much just to get him to sleep through the night without any interruptions, and even when he does, he's plagued by dreams.

Some might call them nightmares, but he just calls them dreams. He starts out dying, feeling Casey's love all around him and needing no other sensation, and his fragments are just beginning to scatter when something awakens him. _His_ nightmare is waking up again, and remembering everything that could have been his had he perished like he was meant to.

Schwann awakens aching with loss—and a hangover—and curses Raven and all he stands for. Come evening, Raven laughs at Schwann and drinks himself into oblivion all over again… and hungers for Casey (and her tangled hair and her sparkling eyes and her soft skin and her gentle laughter).

Schwann knows no earthly sense can compare to the unification of two minds that comes with death, and is perfectly willing to wait and be faithful to the memory of the woman to whom he gave his innocence. Raven, however, wants that sensation _now_, and the closest thing he knows to it is the unification of two bodies. Through the half-pleasant haze of drink, he can't remember the harmony of his soul resonating with Casey's, and dismisses it as a mere dream thought up by Schwann to keep him focused on his meaningless duties.

So, he rebels. His eyes wander, and his body with them—and Schwann is left to bear the brunt of Raven's sins, and clean up his mess come dawn.

**Depression**

Five years have passed. Raven watches the sunrise, remembering listlessly how Casey always got up at a ridiculous hour to watch the day break, just because it's another opportunity to find beauty in this corrupted world. He always scoffed at her before, but now, he thinks he understands.

Raven knows more than anyone the roughness of the world. Gradually, he's opened up to the Don enough to feed him information about the Empire and act as a sort of double agent; Schwann, meanwhile, continues to adhere to his original mission. Even if he doesn't know the particulars of the plan after all this time, he owes him his life, in a twisted way—and he's always admired the man for his ambition.

His loyalty _isn't_ because he fears death.

A bittersweet smile tugs at his lips: how far has Casey scattered? It seems that she's shining like the sun gleaming on the clouds burning in the fiery sky. Maybe that's her, singing with the birds in the distant trees. He almost feels her curl around him softly, in the breeze stirring his hair.

He runs a hand through it almost self-consciously, closing his eyes; it's much longer than he's ever let it grow before, but he insists on keeping it just past his shoulder in the interest of convenience. He remembers how Casey sometimes said he'd look better if his hair were longer, and he said she'd look better if her hair were shorter. Neither of them ever did anything about it.

Well, here he is, with longer hair. Raven walks down the hill, bow on his shoulder, having left his sword at home; he was always interested in learning archery, but Casey was always so busy with actual training that she was never able to teach him. It took their deaths to make him find the time to learn, and that he did—and is still doing. He takes walks every morning to this hill to watch the sunrise, practicing archery by killing any monsters that stand in his way.

Every day seems the same to him: endlessly gathering information—for the Commandant, for the Don, for his own ends. There seems to be no end to his scheming and double-crossing, with only the occasional visit to the capital to see the Commandant and assure him he's still alive and useful. Then it's back to Dahngrest and Altosk, and back to his _almost _ordinary life.

If he could just kill Schwann, his life might actually be bearable.

Raven gave up on that long ago. It's impossible. Every time he tries to convince himself that Schwann is no longer needed, he remembers the fact that he's been promoted to Captain despite his frequent absences from Zaphias, as well as that infuriating, lingering respect for the Commandant. However worthless his life is, he owes it to the Commandant, and Schwann is willing to lay it down for the sake of whatever his ambition might be. He'll continue to obey those few commands he receives in faith that it won't be as bad as he has a feeling it will—and Raven will take over in the meantime.

Is there nothing he can do to change his mind?

He can't remember the last time he was both sober and truly happy, not counting the innumerable times he's pretended for the sake of others. Hope is an alien emotion to him. There's no end in sight to his trials or life (and aren't they the same?), and he's afraid to make friends, or at least friends whose backs he would prefer remain unstabbed. His trade is information, and he's married to his work, not relationships. Schwann made sure of that.

Raven doesn't like it, but he doesn't exactly have a choice.

**Acceptance**

It's been a full decade since that fateful day, and Raven is dreaming in a jail cell in Zaphias, mostly because the easiest way for the Commandant to track him down nowadays is to put out a warrant for his arrest.

Casey's trying to tell him something as he stands on that hill watching the day break, but his clumsy earthbound soul can't understand the wordless language of the spirits. Her presence vanishes for a moment, and Raven calls out in fear for her safety, but then he realizes something. She _is_ the rising sun, and the single illuminated cloud scudding across the sky, and the birds singing sweetly, and the grass waving beneath his feet, and the wind on his back.

Raven remembers that the last five years have been spent chasing the vague idea of hope (which looked to him about like the scene spread before him), trying to find a better way of looking at life than 'just another day', and he likes to think he's been mostly successful. He's moved on from the experience, at least as much as he logically can with a blastia heart to remind him daily.

But there's something missing, and it's _Casey_—and all she has come to represent for him. He still hasn't let himself get emotionally close to anyone, for fear they'll leave him alone again.

She whispers something, actual words, in a soft and soothing voice he hasn't heard in ten years: "I am with you." And he _understands_, just like the perfect unity between souls after death: she is alive in everything. He's never been alone, and he never will be alone. A weight lifts from his chest abruptly, and he awakens with the first tear he's shed in a long while streaking down his face.

If Raven wasn't a religious man before, he is now, and hope is his goddess.

**((So, yeah! That begins with his death as Damuron, and ends earlier the same day as when Yuri shows up and meets him for the first time in _Tales of Vesperia_. Bonus points if you can guess which song I got the title from…****))**


End file.
